


upon my liar's chair

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Confused Javert, Exhaustion, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Javert Lives, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Seine, The dub con is very mild really but I've used the warning anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 01:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20106769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: Is it fear that drives him to ask Javert if he can go home to Cosette for just a moment? Or is it resignation to his fate? Jean doesn’t know, but Javert – he looks tired too. He doesn’t look at Jean as the carriage rattles toward Rue Plumet. His hands rest in fists on his knees and his jaw is so tight that Jean would not be surprised to hear his teeth crack under the pressure. Javert does not look like a man who is victorious. He looks very much like a man who is trapped. Jean knows the signs, after all.They're tired, and hurting, and so so tired. And when Javert asks for a kiss in exchange for letting Valjean see Cosette one more time, it doesn't seem like a very strange thing at all.





	upon my liar's chair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MagicFishHook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicFishHook/gifts).

_God, he’s tired._

Aching down to his bones tired, and he can barely lift Marius by the time they make it to his grandfather’s house. Javert doesn’t help him. He just watches, like he’s always watched, and Jean feels the familiar twitch of fear in his stomach even now, even now the man has him. He shouldn’t be afraid now he is caught. The chase is over.

And yet. 

And yet Javert looks at him with such an odd expression that the fear is there all the same. 

_God, he’s tired._

Is it fear that drives him to ask Javert if he can go home to Cosette for just a moment? Or is it resignation to his fate? Jean doesn’t know, but Javert – he looks tired too. He doesn’t look at Jean as the carriage rattles toward Rue Plumet. His hands rest in fists on his knees and his jaw is so tight that Jean would not be surprised to hear his teeth crack under the pressure. Javert does not look like a man who is victorious. He looks very much like a man who is trapped. Jean knows the signs, after all.

The carriage draws to a halt, finally. Jean, still not believing he will be allowed to leave his captor, reaches slowly for the handle. And, just as he expected, Javert’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. _Ah._

“Javert,” Jean mumbles. “You said-”

“Did I? What did I say, Jean Valjean?” 

Javert’s voice is ponderous, and he _still_ does not look Jean in the eye. He is fixated on his own hand, tight around Jean’s wrist like a cuff, and it is almost as though he is not even there. Everything is slow, like they are under water, like time has stopped within the carriage and they might sit here like this for another hundred years as the world moves around them. 

“My daughter. You said I may – say goodbye to her.”

“Mmm.”

Javert’s fingernails are digging in so far that Jean will be marked when – if – Javert ever lets him go. But then there is another sensation. Javert’s thumb – he’s brushing it over the soft, vulnerable skin on the inside of Jean’s wrist. A simple movement backwards and forwards, but it shoots up Jean’s arm like a lick of fire and he gasps. 

“Javert –”

“I’ve always watched you, Jean Valjean.”

“Yes.”

“You’re mine. Now more than ever. I’ve caught you. And here you are. And you’re mine.”

Javert is rambling, his voice getting louder in the deafening silence of the carriage and finally he is looking at Jean, and that is so much worse. He’s pinned to the back of the seat and he can’t breathe, because Javert is looking at him like – like he wants something, and Jean would give it, gladly, if only he would ask. 

“Please-”

Jean doesn’t know what he’s asking for either. He just wishes the unbearable sensation of Javert’s thumb would stop. 

“You will give me this, and you may see your daughter,” Javert rasps. 

“Anything. Please-”

Jean is shaking. His clothes are still damp and he’s covered in filth, and Javert has never been a large man but he is looming over him as though he is, and God, Jean is so afraid. The point of contact on his wrist burns as though his skin is on fire, as though all the heat in his body has concentrated there, and he might die if Javert does not – 

Javert lunges forwards, closes the distance, and presses his mouth to Jean’s. One of them is panting but Jean does not know who, because Javert is _kissing_ him.  
There is no pleasure in it. Javert bites at his mouth, catches a lip and Jean feels the brief warmth of a blood well up before Javert’s tongue lathes it away. With his free hand, he clutches at the back of Javert’s coat. He could push him away if he wanted to, easily force the man into his own seat. But he doesn’t. God help him, he doesn’t. The fear in his stomach has spiked, forced itself up into his chest and up his throat, and he can’t breathe. Javert is a solid weight between his legs, holding him open and Jean remembers another time – so long ago - when Javert had him stripped bare, as vulnerable as he is now and oh – oh, Jean remembers how he had taken a hand to himself after that, when he so rarely did. He hated Javert, who could have done anything to do him, and he fantasised about it afterwards, about Javert’s hungry eyes on him, how they raked his body, and the smirk that followed as he allowed Jean to dress again. Javert could have done _anything._

“You’re mine,” Javert snarls, when he has taken what he wants, and Jean is gasping beneath him. “Mine.”

There is no real heat in his words, and he closes his eyes as he sinks back into his seat, as though afraid Jean might read something there. As though Javert hasn’t already made himself as vulnerable as he made Jean. 

Trembling, Jean does not reply. He slips from the carriage and he runs inside on tired legs. Cosette sobs in relief at his return and dabs at the blood running down his chin with her handkerchief. Toussaint tuts at the state of him and Jean allows himself to be manhandled to the kitchen, where hot water waits, and he washes as she fetches clean clothes for him. 

And he is aware that outside, Javert is waiting for him. A man that he thought he knew. 

When he is clean, he takes Cosette in his arms and kisses her hair. Tears force themselves up his throat but he swallows them. She does not need to see him weeping. It will not be her last memory of him. 

“Papa, you’re trembling,” she says, familiar concern in her voice. “Are you cold?”

“No, my darling. Just – I am very tired. It has been a long day.”

“Then you must go to bed. And tomorrow we can talk about what happened.”

He cannot speak for fear of sobbing after all, so he nods his head and watches her ascend the stairs, Toussaint close behind. As her door closes, and she is safe, he turns to the front door. 

He will keep his promise. 

It is raining heavily as he steps out onto the street, and for a moment he is disorientated. The carriage is not where he expected it to be, and he turns, confused.

The carriage is not anywhere. 

_Javert is gone._

Jean rushes out into the rain, searching wildly. He – Javert – he cannot have just left. Especially after –well, after what happened. 

“Javert!” Jean shouts, as though it will help. The rain soaks his newly dried clothes, but he pays it no attention. 

“Javert!”

This is not fair. He is ready. More ready than he has ever been and now Javert has gone, and he cannot stand it. He is _ready_.

With a growl, he turns blindly into the rain and starts to run. 

His body aches but he runs. He’s always been running, away from Javert, away from his past, away from the man that he once was. Running is what he knows. No matter how weary, he has always been able to run. 

He is ready, and he will not be robbed now. He does not want to run anymore. 

The rain falls steadily, and he does not know where he’s going. But on the Pont au Change, there is a shadow, and the shadow is – it’s Javert.

And he’s halfway into the water already, or so it seems.

“Javert!” Jean screams, and he does not stop to think. He’s strong – strength is what he’s always had – and he does not think as he tackles Javert to the ground. 

Javert fights him, of course, like a wild animal. Scratching and growling, and cursing, but Jean is strong and he pins him to the ground by his wrists. 

“Javert, stop! Please stop this.”

Javert tries to bring a knee up to his stomach, but Jean knows the old prison fighting ways as well as he does, and he’s ready for it. Javert yells in incoherent frustration, and Jean holds on as though his life depends on it. 

As though Javert’s life depends on it. 

“You steal, Valjean,” Javert spits. “You’re a thief and you steal and you steal and still you’re here.”

“Javert, I can’t let –”

“You allow me nothing! It is not your choice!”

“I’m yours,” Jean gasps. “You said it yourself. I am yours, and now you would do this, when finally you have me.”

Javert’s fingers are curled so tightly into his hands that blood is oozing from between his fingers, but Jean feels the moment the fight goes out of him.

“What is this, Valjean?” Javert whispers. “What are you?”

“Yours. And – come away from here. Please.”

“You will not change my mind.”

“Come away from here and – you can have me. Any way you want.”

Javert’s eyes snap open, and the rain running down his looks like tears. Perhaps there are some tears there too, but Jean cannot see well enough to know for sure. He only knows that what he has said, he cannot take back. _And he does not wish to._

Javert is – what is Javert? His enemy. His hunter. His most constant companion, the shadow at his back and the phantom in his mind. The man he could never forget. The man who watched him, hungry, and the man who kissed him, not two hours ago. The man he has this night watched change before his eyes.

And not a man who he wishes to see dead. 

“Please, come with me.”

It’s a plea, and Javert is a dead weight beneath him, but he nods all the same. He allows Jean to pull him to his feet, and he allows the hand tight around his arm until they are off the bridge. And then, Jean just keeps a hold of him. Javert allows that too.

Jean’s heart feels as though it will burst from his chest, force itself up through his throat, and he keeps his mouth clamped shut. He’s half dragging Javert through the rain slick streets, and he does not know what will happen when he makes it home, but whatever it is – it has been coming for a long time. His feet ache from running.

He takes him to the flat. It’s safer there, away from Cosette and Toussaint. For his part, Javert does not seem to know where he is, and he follows willingly, his feet slow but steady on the stairs. He is close, so close. His clothes are damp but Javert is burning and his heat seeps through Jean’s hand and up his arm. 

As soon as they are in the front door, Javert moves. He slams Jean back against the wall, his mouth once more at Jean’s mouth, his hands holding his shoulders still. 

“Javert-”

“Anything, you said.” Javert growls into his mouth, and Jean gasps as Javert’s hand comes between them to grasp him, hard, squeezing too tightly to be anything but cruel.

“Javert, please.” Jean tries to move, to get away from that pressing, painful grip, but for once his strength has deserted him. Or Javert has found his, and it more than either of them ever knew it could be. 

“Anything,” Javert breathes raggedly, and his hand scrabbles at Jean’s waist, tugging on his trousers, finding leverage to grip him roughly once more and squeeze again.

Jean’s chest is full, so full now, and it hurts. It hurts so much, from Javert’s dry hand to the dead, desperate look in his eyes, and Jean sobs against his biting lips.

“Anything. I promised. But not like this.”

For a wild moment, there is nothing of Javert left in his eyes as he looks up at Jean. But Jean brings a trembling hand up to Javert’s cheek and brushes a fingertip under his eye, because Javert is crying too. At the touch of Jean’s hand, Javert freezes, and he falls, boneless to his knees. He rests his forehead against Jean’s thigh, and he sobs. 

Jean smooths a hand tentatively over Javert’s hair.

This is what they have become. This is what the years have done to them. What they have done to each other. Jean wonders if Javert has ever cried like this since he was old enough to feel ashamed of doing it. 

They remain, paralysed, _so tired_, until Jean finds the strength from somewhere to haul Javert to his feet. 

“What have you done to me?” Javert clasps a hand over his own chest, as though his very own heart pains him. He’s doubled over, like he is going to vomit, and Jean rubs at his back. 

“I am tired,” Jean murmurs, and he feels strung out, pulled apart, like Javert has put his fingers into the tapestry of his life and torn it open. He cannot think past this second, this moment, this night, past the need to fall into bed and sleep. 

So he stumbles towards his bedroom, dragging Javert behind him. 

“Damn you,” Javert curses, but he follows anyway.  
They tumble into the room and Jean strips off his wet clothes, hands shaking, unashamed of his nakedness. Javert has seen it all before, and the eyes he watches with are half closed with fatigue anyway. Jean tugs on a nightshirt, and turns to see Javert fumbling with the buttons of his uniform jacket. 

Jean’s eyes are blurry, but he bats Javert’s hands away roughly and pulls at the buttons. Together they peel off the jacket and the shirt, and Javert drops his trousers as Jean forces a nightshirt over his head. Javert grits his teeth but does not speak, his eyes dark as though bruises are forming around them. 

“Come,” Jean whispers, his throat rough.

He gets into bed, trusting that Javert will follow him, barely caring if he does or not as long as he can sleep. 

After a moment, the bed dips as Javert falls into it beside him. Javert grabs at his wrist once more, his grip gentler this time, and he closes his eyes. 

“What have you done to me, Jean Valjean?”

There is no heat in it.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hurt by Nine Inch Nails/Johnny Cash


End file.
